


The Raven’s Cry

by callmetotty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But he is our ass, Canon Divergent, F/F, F/M, Harry Potter Sherlock Homes Crossover, He is still an ass, I mean it, M/M, Mature/Explicit rating for future, OOC!Draco, Sherlock loves muggles, Very long story ahead!, also angsty, also fluffy, and other characters - Freeform, other minor relationships - Freeform, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-10-24 12:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20705831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmetotty/pseuds/callmetotty
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is not your average pureblood wizard. He dreads school, dislikes his peers in general, and his fascination with muggles borders on obsession. But after a happenstance meeting of a strange boy with a cane, he has trouble drifting to sleep without thinking of the color blue— and not just because of his House.





	1. Rain Taps on Windows and a Crash of Lightning

**Author's Note:**

> My current obsessions with both Harry Potter (lets be honest I will be obsessed with it my entire life) and Sherlock Holmes has mashed together in my brain. For quiet a bit of the story, events will proceed in a canonish fashion but will diverge in several ways. It will be very long— and I have no idea how long that will be at the moment and slow!burn. It begins in the first year and will progress through all seven years.

_ Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, _

_ Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— _

_ While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, _

_ As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. _

_ “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— _

_ Only this and nothing more.” _

_ -”The Raven” Edgar Allan Poe _

He watched the rain tap against the windowpane, his breath fogging the cold glass as his chest breathed evenly, in and out. On the surface, one would expect him to be perfectly relaxed, but you could never rely on his exterior for his emotional well-being. He almost laughed at the thought. _ Emotional well-being? The man who prided the term “high functioning sociopath” being emotionally unstable! _

Like the world’s biggest joke yet. 

He ran his long pale fingers through his rather tamed black curls— surprising compared to the state of the rest of him. His dress pants were wrinkled terribly. His white button up crumpled and only partially buttoned, his bare feet resting on the warm stone wall across from his perch. That’s what he liked about Draco’s quarters. His window seals were just wide enough that he could quite comfortably fit between the walls and watch the world below him. It had been the deciding factor when he had chosen his room to cramp up in rather than his own. _ Well, that and the fact that he had to share it with three other enormously ignorant boys. _How they managed to pass exams was beyond him . 

Hermione has stopped reading a bit ago, sitting in thick, but not uncomfortable silence. She sat on Draco’s bed, hair curled on top of her head into a neat swirl. Her honey eyes were focused on the large text perched on her crossed legs, red, tattered binding reading _ A Collection of Edgar Allen Poe. _That was one of the numerous reasons why he enjoyed her presence so much. Hermione could truly appreciate the beauty of the muggle world; it’s arts, sciences, mathematics. How they constructed their world with great effort while in his own, he only had to wave a wand, muttering a few words. Well words only if it was truly a difficult spell really. 

He couldn’t help but wonder if he had been born _ into the wrong world. _He couldn’t help but wonder what would life be like as a true muggle? What would he be doing with his life?

But that was not the cards he was dealt.

“Sherlock?”

Her voice was barely a whisper, sympathy and worry seeping through every syllable. He blinked at his name, realizing for the first time that a gentle stream of tears were wetting his cheeks, pale skin reddened by the distinct difference of the cold of the window and the warmth of the fire. 

He didn’t answer her, he only shifted his head against the window looking at her in the most raw way he had ever been. He didn’t bother stopping the tears. 

The sociopath who has prided himself of being devoid of feelings, had been broken. 

“Sherlock you have to eat,” her voice was tinged with a plea, plopping the book down onto the bed with slight bounce. She moved over to him, bringing a warm cup of tea and a plate of sweetbread. She stood in front of him thrusting the plate of bread into his lap. “You are wasting away. You can’t let yourself starve.”

“What’s the point?” His voice came out cracked and rough. It had been a while since he had actually spoken. Days really. He wasn’t sure anymore. He has carried himself with square shoulders, trying not to break until winter holiday. _ He _ had finally went home, with _ her. _ Meeting _ her parents _for Christmas holidays. He didn’t think it was quite Christmas yet but he hadn’t been really counting the days anymore. 

“You are stronger than this Sherlock. We both are.” Her voice was stronger at that, that Gryffindor shining through brightly. It made him smile, despite the tears. It had been a long time since he had smiled in earnest. 

“What would you propose my Mia? What can I do? And _ don’t say move on,” _he stopped for a moment, his gaze turning toward the window, the rain falling was starting to turn to cracked ice. “I will never be able to do that I am afraid.”

“Sherlock Holmes, I know that,” she sounded almost insulted. “But I do know you are quite the excellent actor. We need to go to meals. Study. Keep busy. And stay together.” She got quiet for a moment, leaning against the wall just high enough to lay her head on his shoulder, “We all will.” 

He felt true warmth then. The first he had felt in a while and slowly but surely the tears began to slow to a stop, his stained face drying. They were quiet for a while. Just laying against one another in comforting, companionable silence. “Will you read a bit more?” He asked quietly.

“Will you come to supper with us tonight?” She asked, eyebrows raised.

He answered with only a nod in response to which she raised her eyebrows even higher with a tilt of her head that was _ slightly _intimidating. 

“Alright alright,” he sighed, “but start again, from the top.”

She nodded, quiet pleased and perched herself back onto the bed, legs crossed book in the proper place. She looked at him pointedly, clearing her voice, eyes focused on the bread in his lap. Sherlock grunted and picked up the bread and taking small bites with small sips of warm green tea. Seemingly pleased, Hermione adjusted her glasses as she skimmed the page until she found the top of the section, printed neatly under a black, splattered raven she read, “_ Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…” _

_ __________________________________________________________________

_Five Years Earlier _

Sherlock had perched himself in the kitchen chair quite like a bird, a book laying on the table across from his fairly untouched bowl of hot porridge and fresh strawberries. Muttering to himself,taking quick notes into a thick journal, his muggle pen jotting rapidly against paper. 

“William?” Mother’s voice was quick and sharp, staring at him from across the table in a rather dissatisfied fashion. He _ felt _ her eyes on him, but did not raise his eyes in answer. “Sherlock,” he quipped, his voice cracking quite a bit, “I prefer Sherlock mother.” He began flipping pages quite quickly the textbook fanning slices of air across the table muttering, “ _ force equals mass times acceleration” _under his breath.

He was pulled suddenly out of his studies as if the book lifted on its own accord and flew across the room. It landed hapadzadly on the floor, along with his journal and pen. Sherlock looked up quickly, a clear sulk forming on his sharp face, already losing the rounding quality of boyhood. “Mum! I wasn’t done! You have lost my page!” The last bit came out as a whine but he didn’t quite care. 

“I will _ not _ have your _ muggle studies _at the meal table! You should feel lucky that I allow you to even have those writing instruments! How will you write with quill when you go to Hogwarts? It’s quite different.”

“Superior if you ask me but sure. A nightmare,” he rolled his eyes, flopping into the chair in proper form and taking sullen bites from his bowl. 

“I don’t understand it at all,” His father brushed in lightly between bites, “your letter could come any day and your enamored with that muggle rubbish! Such intelligence! You could be getting a head start like your brother. Did best in his class first year due to that. You should consider it.” 

While his tone portrayed light conversation, Sherlock knew it was anything but. He threw a nasty glare at Mycroft, who seemed quite pleased. Mycroft would being going into his third year at Hogwarts, with perfect behavior, perfect scores. Just _ perfect. _At least to their parents. They might not know it but he was not the only Holmes boy fascinated by muggle studies— he was just the only one open about it. 

The rest of breakfast went quietly, with the occasional praise of Mycroft's progress in his studies. There was the question— well rather more a statement — of when his own letter would come in and of course, what house would he be sorted into. Sherlock’s answer was the same as always.

“Whatever I wish I suppose. Like a _ hat _can push me into a house,” he puffed slightly, chewing his last bits of strawberries

His comment was ignored. Business as usual today then. 

As his mother was beginning to whisk bowls away for cleaning, water bubbling and brushes beginning to scrub dishes suspended over the sink, the family owl flew rather gracefully through the open kitchen window and landed on the large oak family table in front of him. A sleek, black owl, Sherlock was rather fond of Eurus. She had always taken to him in such a warm way, unlike the other members of the Holmes family. Eurus fluffed up her feathers proudly, nipping at his fingers to turn his attention to the envelope dropped on the table.

A crisp, white parchment envelope labeled to _ Sherlock Holmes. _

“Well,” he laughed dryly, “at least Professor Dumbledore can respect my proper name.”

The comment was completely overlooked with the joyful cries of his mother and the boisterous cheers of his father, large hands patting Sherlock’s small shoulders. There were many _ “My boy! A Hogwarts student!” And “That’s my boy! A true Holmes he is!” And “How delightful! We must go to Diagon Alley! Oh my sweet boy!” _ Peppered with kisses and shoulder claps— none of which he understood at _ all. _He had been doing magic since he was a toddler for Merlin’s sake! His first bit of magic was when he got quite irritated when his mother closed a nursery book and he smacked the book back open into her lap.

_ They all knew this would come? Why the fuss over a blimey letter? _

Mycroft—_ thank heavens— _ did not get caught up with this ridiculous hubbub over parchment. He smiled rather smugly at his brother over his parents shoulders, eyebrows raised as he stood, quite amused, at his little brother’s torture.

“Yes, yes it is quite thrilling,” he managed, his mother already pulling on her cloak— today a light baby blue contrasting well with her light skin and light strawberry curls. “I assume we go to gather all my school things already?” 

She didn’t even bother answering , hurrying him to dress properly so they could get a move on. She began humming as she pulled on matching light blue gloves lined with white lace.

Sherlock muttered, his books floating behind him as he trudged up the stairs to dress for shopping. _ I didn’t even get to practice the equation. What a waste of a morning. _

_ ________________________________________ _

Diagon Alley, per usual for this time of year, was full of completely bumbling idiots. He much more likes coming in the dead of winter; the crisp, cold air, hot mugs of cocoa in the nearly bare Leaky Caldron and all the time in the world to peruse through books. As his birthday was nicely tucked into November, it was always his requested birthday treat— that and a trip to muggle London for some more fascinating books. 

While he did not exactly _ dislike _magical studies— he just tended to lean his interest to potions and magical theory. The rest he had been force fed for years and, naturally, found zero difficulty in. Charms, Transfiguration,Defense Against The Dark Arts— the whole lot he found easy. A tad boring really, but necessary nonetheless. 

It was well into mid morning hours by the time his mother had dragged him— yes quite literally _ dragged _ — into Diagon Alley, it was jam packed. Large groupings of family’s pushed into various shops, the few Muggleborn students and their parents bumbling around, a few wild children peering in at broomsticks as if they were the grandest thing in the universe— he truly didn’t see the appeal _ at all. _ For his 5th birthday his parents had bought him his very first and _ only _broom. To their surprise— and disappointment— he had left it lying on the ground and walked away. He may have asked “what’s this rubbish?”

He had no problems admitting he was rather a brat. No sense in denying plain truth.

His mother was speaking to him in very quick, excited rambles. He caught enough bits and pieces to assume the would be emptying quite a chunk of galleons out of the family Gringotts Vault for _ only the finest for Hogwarts next star student! _

He had tried his best to look rather pleased by the statement.

By the sound of his mothers _ tut _and a barely masked sigh he assumed he had failed.

As his mother glided up the steps into the bank, the door whisked open and a goblin at the entrance bowed deeply with some sort of murmuring along the lines of _ “an honor as always Mrs. Holmes.” _Coming from a rather old and fairly wealthy line of purebloods did have its positives and negatives. A positive: nearly everyone scraping to please them since it was common knowledge that they had coin to burn and strings they can pull for whatever the need. His father and mother both working in the ministry and well known among pureblood society did help inflate the power that came with the name. The downsides piled higher; Sherlock had realized at a young age that the pureblood superiority was rather rubbish and refused to entertain it. In fact he rather admired muggles. The next being that absolutely everyone knew you and everyone wanted to make nice.

Obviously he was quite bad at that bit.

And the last, but certainly not least, was the expectations laid at his feet. Full marks, perfect behavior, _ never be sorted into Hufflepuff ( _ this fact alone enticed him to choose the yellow but he was rubbish at loyalty and he definitely did not enjoy to “toil” as they put it). His brother— only a third year— was already planning his course loads to fit into his chosen career path— a member of the office dedicated to the Minister himself. He was _ thirteen _for Merlin’s sake! Shouldn’t he be concerned with dating and all that lot? Or at least studying something mildly interesting. 

Rubbish.

As standing in line for access to their vault—why Mother insisted him to drag along for this boring bit was beyond him— he was suddenly jolted out of his thoughts by a bump from behind, so hard it nearly knocked him to the floor!

Turning around without a word, he saw a small, bushy headed girl, fumbling nervously with apologies — Muggleborn obviously by the look of it. She was so totally enraptured by the magic of it all that she has completely lost focus on reality and nearly knocked him off his feet. The moment she realized her error he watched as her honey eyes shifted back into focus and a bit of panic filled them.

“I am so so sorry,” she rambled quickly, a bit breathless, “it is all just so fascinating! It’s real! Blimey isn’t it amazing! I doubted the truth of it all a bit, thought it was all a rather mean joke but it is all real!”

He stayed silent for the entire lot of her rambles, which rather quickly spilled into a rather good deduction and sharp knowledge of the clearly unfamiliar works around her. He didn’t even give her polite nods at least to seem like he was interested in her conversation.

Which he wasn’t. Not in the slightest.

He was interested in _ her. _She was brilliant— nearly at his level of not so. Very sharp witted and completely fascinated by the unknown. In learning the unknown. This girl— she would wring every droplet of knowledge that she could find in this world. 

He rather liked that.

“Sherlock,” he introduced himself mid sentence, sticking his hand out in a rather stiff fashion, still watching her engrossed in the atmosphere of the bank. “Muggleborn then? Lovely! I am fascinated by muggles. I was studying the laws physics before Mother dragged me to get my school things. I am a first year as well.”

She took his hand quite taken aback by his very _ odd _ introduction, but seems rather pleased. “Hermione. Muggleborn is a rather new term for me but I assume it is those born from families without magic yes? And you would be born from a family with magic? Lovely to meet you! It is surprising that you would choose to study physics when you have such _ wonder _around you!”

“Wonder” he said with a grin, “is entirely based on the perspective of the person. I find wonder in how your people create to fill the void that magic has left. With fascinating intellect and creativity. There is always wonder in the unknown.”

“Oh yes I completely agree!!” She squealed,”I suppose it would be fascinating from your perspective. I always knew I was different,” she cleared her throat, tucking a strand of her rather bushy hair behind her ear—_ female but clearly uninterested in the waste of time and energy on making herself presentably feminine. Untamed hair, rather plain attire, simple shoes. All of good quality meaning her parents are wealthy but she chooses not to dress in girly fashion. Ink stains on her fingers, paper cuts. Manic reader. Takes many notes. Clearly lacks proper “people” skills. Not a downside at all really. _“But to know that it is real— I really am a witch— it is like a dream. I will be most pleased to see the bookshop I seen on the way in. I am determined to get a head start on things.”

He had spared only a glance at her parents—_ clearly nervous and unsure of their place here. Where to go? What to do? They desire to be supportive but unsure how to do so. Both work in the same occupation, posture stating they spend quite a lot of time slightly bent. Probably healthcare— smell of sanitizing agents and immaculate attention to their hygiene and health. _

Calling to his mother over his shoulder, he quickly introduced her to Hermione’s parents— The Granger’s he learned. As his mother was head of the Department of Muggle Integration and Relations, she was absolutely in her element and immediately suggested giving the lot a hand and going about Diagon Alley as a group. 

Just as he had suspected.

As the first person his age that actually held a drop of decent intelligence he was rather fascinated by her and desired further study into her behavior. The rest of the day passed quickly—

first being measured for set of school robes so they can be made by the time shopping was completed. His wand was 13 and a quarter inches, Acacia with moderate flexibility with a core of Dragon Heartstring. Predictably so— his mother did flinch when it was the Acacia due to the unreliable nature of it but he has no doubts about his wand.

As always, his mother had saved the best for last— Flourish and Blotts. Sherlock had spent the entire day nearly silent, observing Hermione as she rambled on with questions about what was in front of her, which she quickly answered for herself with nearly no help at all. When he finally reached his favorite store, the pair of them quickly tucked away in isles and isles of books while his mother arranged for their school text books to be brought together. She was truly in her element— the Granger’s appeared much more comfortable after his mother’s skillful and kind introductions to their daughter’s new world and was asking tons of questions about nearly everything they see. While they did not catch on nearly as quickly as Hermione, it was easy to see her lineage did not lack in intellect. 

He quickly gathered an assortment of useful books for her to read over the next two months before they would board the train, assuring her as the pile grew higher, that he would personally get them for her out of his allowance for the month. She rather aggressively protested it— _ fiery then I rather like that— _ but she saw there was no use in arguing with him and seemed very thankful— _ good heart, caring just misunderstood by most. _He did so not out of kindness entirely, but purpose. He intended to make an ally of this brilliant girl— if nothing but for the entire reason that it would very likely make his school experience less dull, not to mention she would be able to give him first hand accounts of muggle life.

_ That was a top priority. _

As the afternoon ended the pair exchanged farewells with the promise that he would regularly owl her for updates on her studies, and his own, until they arranged to meet at the train. She seemed quite pleased with herself in finding someone companionable so quickly— _ usually found annoying by most people. Perceived as rude or a “know it all” as her intellectual abilities clearly separated her from her peers. Probably bullied frequently in her muggle schooling. _

Bidding farewell, his mother quite happily whisked them both into muggle London— for a delightful change— arm draped around her son as they sat out for his favorite bookshop. 

“Am I getting a treat? What in heavens for?”

He was truly stumped by this. They had not planned this. The opposite actually, so her very spur of the moment decision to indulge his obsession took him by surprise .

She didn’t answer for a bit, only ruffling his hair. “I am proud of you Sherlock. You did well today. I dare say you made a friend.” That last bit was paired with a cheeky grin. 

In the moments before they crossed the threshold into the small, dusty muggle bookstore, Sherlock returned his mothers affection with a tight hug. 

Not for the pride in socializing like normal boys his age, and not even really for the books.

She had used his name. The name he preferred.

_ Sherlock. _


	2. Deductions and a Shock is Color

_From childhood’s hour I have not been _

_As others were—I have not seen _

_As others saw—I could not bring _

_My passions from a common spring— _

_From the same source I have not taken _

_My sorrow—I could not awaken _

_My heart to joy at the same tone— _

_And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—_

_“Alone”— Edgar Allan Poe_

True to his word, Sherlock owled Hermione after their meeting in Diagon Alley. He might have waited a few weeks after the meeting to actually send the letter, but he sent it nonetheless. It was rather short and to the point. He hated the necessity of dragging on with pointless introductions and pleasantries so he did quickly skip to the point. He naturally asked on the progress of her studies and if she had any questions she would like to discuss with him at length. He gave a short description of how their mail system worked and instructed her that Eurus would stay in her care until she had completed a letter to send back to him. That had been the short of it.

It had perhaps been the only highlight as July bled into August. His father and mother both had confiscated all of his muggle books, pens and journals and locked them away with enchantments he couldn’t possibly break now that he had received his letter (what a ridiculous law). They had set him at a harsh pace of studying all of his books and assigning homework. Homework!! It was a month until school and he was writing an essay on the importance of a bezoar in most common poison antidotes. After he completed his assigned tasks he was allowed his choice of one— yes one— muggle book but any notes must be made with quill and parchment.

Pens were so much better. You didn’t even have to dip them. How is that fact alone not magical? 

As August crawled closer and closer to September, his parents began to act a bit odd— more than the usual. Any time he would enter the room his mother would kiss him gently, wiping tears from her eyes in such a way that she was nearly pretending they weren't there at all. She and father both had even began to stop his homework all together and began to give his muggle books back (although he was still stuck with quill and parchment.)

They were _dreading_ September 1st?

The fact alone made him quite nervous and he couldn’t understand it at all. With all the homework, studying, and absolute glee that had followed his letter he had no reason to assume that would change at all. He has been told his entire life that Hogwarts would be the best years of his life. His father had been so distraught that half way into August, as he was skimming through a rather long letter from Hermione written on parchment(the girl does commit doesn’t she) that he even gave his journal and pens back, with added extension charms so they would never run out of paper or ink.

Not that his mother knew about that bit.

Now that had shaken him into tears. Worse— it had shaken him to standing at Mycroft’s bedroom door. Mycroft has actually had the gall to laugh at his confusion. He truly was boggled by the outpouring of sadness and affection— indulging his rather taboo fascination with muggles. His mother had even sat down and explained several different encounters or muggle customs she had learned about through her work at the ministry— something she had never done before.

Never.

“Brother mine,” Mycroft said in a quite conceited tone,parting his auburn hair, his watery grey eyes focused on the mirror before him, “it’s so simple why you should be able to nearly deduce this yourself.”

“Mycroft please don’t chide me,” he nearly growled, “I don’t understand it at all, it's just not logical.”

“That,” he took a pause to swing away from the mirror, dressed in smart grey dress slacks and a black button up collared shirt, only one button undone showing the tiniest of a gold chain hung around his neck, no pendent visible from underneath the shirt. “is the entire point! This isn’t about logic, it’s about feeling. Their youngest child will soon be off to Hogwarts. While we are there, the nest is emptied. Before when I went to school you were still here to tend too. Now there will be no one during our months at school. It is a new chapter in their lives. Yours too. Have you ever stopped to think in all of your moaning with that muggle obsession of yours that you will not see them again until Christmas Holidays?”

Mycroft turned back to the mirror in a quick fashion, combing his hair, but not managing to control the slight curl at the ends that framed his face. 

Sherlock said nothing while exiting the room. While his brother and he had been once quite close, at some point before his brother’s first year at Hogwarts that began to shift, until the point where their relationship only consisted of the necessities. 

But that would be changing too would it? Everything would. No longer would his brother need to talk to him. Even if he did choose Slytherin, Sherlock could hardly let his name only hold bearing as “Mycroft’s little brother.” No meals or communication would be required at all. He seriously doubted they would even exchange greetings before the Holidays.

On his way back to his room, loneliness began to sink in as it never had before. He had no friends— he was never the type to really socialize. And without Father, Mother, or the necessities of meals to force Mycroft to speak to him, he would have no one.

He may have Hermione. By the size of her letters alone he gathered that she would be most interested in forming a friendship, but he doubted quiet highly that they would be sorted into the same house.

He had never been like other children. He had never found the same joy they did in the simplest of things. He was absolutely terrible at making friends, rather bratty and rude to be entirely honest. He would be lucky if Hermione gave him even a day after they arrived at Hogwarts. 

For the rest of the summer he did his best to write back to her in length comparable to her own, with his own questions about her muggle life. He did not bother hiding the more nefarious parts of his personality. He didn’t enjoy sugar coating things, least of all himself. But she didn’t seem to mind it entirely, but when she disagreed she was not afraid to spar back at him.

It was soon a week before he would board the Hogwarts Express and he, of his own accord, locked his journals and books in his trunk and dedicated his time to spending it with his parents as much as possible. His mother had taken the week to spend as much time as possible with her children, and to his delight had purchased a new family bird and gifted him with Eurus to take to Hogwarts. He had been so touched by this he quite literally cried at the kitchen table, running his fingers over her sleek black feathers. She seemed pleased about the entire ordeal, fluffing up her feathers and cooing at his attention, nuzzling her sharp beak against his fingers. Despite the fact it hurt a bit, he did not stop her.

She may be the only companion he would have in the coming weeks.

On the morning of September 1st his parents, for once in his life, was not nearly as nervous as he was. Truly the idea of going to Hogwarts frightening him. A forgein place, with no companions. What if he didn’t find his space where he belonged? What if he was truly the outcast? The “freak” other children would call him at the parties his mother and father would attend. Seven years of solitude— of being totally completely alone shook him a bit. While he had always felt a bit “alone” was he ever truly?

He was about to find out. 

His mind flying out of control, Sherlock found it hard to climb out of bed and get properly dressed. He dressed in his best dress clothes, cleaned and pressed by his mother the previous morning. If he looked closely enough, he could see the fine stains of tears along the folds of the pants.

He tried not to think too hard on that bit.

Being the true disaster at organizing that he was, his trunk had been a bit of a mess until his father woke early, sending him to eat his morning breakfast while he organized the rest of his trunk. It was a very superficially cheerful meal, his mother fixing his favorite breakfast, eggs and waffles with maple syrup. He indulged her in guessing what his house would be; after his father joined their meal, they both began to tell him wonderful stories that he did his best to listen to— moving staircases with faux stairs, the plethora of photographs that would travel from painting to painting— the different ways one would have to access their house common room. It was all too much, and not enough at the same time.

It was perhaps the first time he had ever been felt his age in his entire life. He felt like the scared eleven year old boy that he was. He was scared— and the fact he only would see his parents at Christmas, was nearly unthinkable.

When the time chimed for their departure to Platform 9 ¾ his father and mother summoned their respective trunks, shrunk them neatly and deposited them into his mother's handbag. Because you could only access the platform through the magical barrier, in the past years they had always apparated to the same discreet location only a few blocks away from the train station and walked the rest of the way. This year his mother planted them several miles from their destination and summoned a muggle cab— she even had muggle money! This had been the highlight of his entire day. He had seen automobiles before and read about them— but to be in one! It was marvelous.

“I love you Sherlock,” his mother whispered into his hair, keeping her arm around his shoulder in a firm hug. “You will do wonderfully. I just know it.”

“What if—“ Sherlock stuttered out in a whisper, “what if no one likes me?”

“My dear boy,” she whispered back, soothing her hand over his hair, “Not everyone will. You will find some people who just can’t understand you,” For a brief moment she paused and he began to feel quite dejected at this. “But, there will be _someone_. There always is. That someone who understands you— who isn’t just like you, but will fit into your life like a puzzle piece.” She paused again with the briefest of glances to his father with warmth in her eyes, “And that person will make all the difference. With that person— those people, the rest of the lot will simply melt into the background.”

The rest of their ride was quiet and Sherlock found himself focusing intently on the way his mother gently rested her arm around his shoulder, her head laid just enough against his own to feel the comfort of pressure. For just a moment, in the comfort of the enclosed cabby, the car just slightly vibrating from the movement down the bumpy road, all there was to see was a family; a father and eldest son chatting about a boarding school the cabby couldn’t possibly understand, and a mother and her youngest boy enjoying their last few moments together before Christmas Holidays.

The cabby came to a halt in front of the station far too soon for Sherlock’s liking, but there was very little time to dawdle about. Running quickly to that very familiar barrier between platform 9 and 10 the four Holmes’ ran at the barrier at full speed, going one at a time. With his father and brother already across, his mother pushed him forward at a quick run toward the barrier and suddenly the muggle station painted in colors of grey melted away into a shock of color.

The bright red Hogwarts Express shined brightly under the rather rare and beautiful London sun. Several older students bustled around the platform, already dawning the appropriate house colors, while other new students like himself, dressed in varying degrees of attire with an air of nervousness that betrayed their year. His mother had pulled their trollies and returned them to normal size, Eurus squawking loudly in offense of the transfiguration she had undergone. Her loud protests drew no unwanted eyes; everyone was too busy either hugging friends in delight of a new school year, or holding onto parents with wet, tear stained faces. 

His mother and father pulled him aside and rapidly gave him their love, and continued to remind him to eat properly, do his best to be polite and write often. Mycroft was however, completely ignoring the exchange as his eyes bounced over the crowd of people. Searching for someone clearly but who? An enemy no doubt. He could hardly imagine his brother having actual friends.

His mother and father helped the pair load their things onto the train, Mycroft’s eyes still steadily scanning the throng of students until, just as the train blew a quick whistle indicating for students to board, it finally landed on someone. 

He was a rather stocky fellow, of average height but an obvious well toned body trained by sports, beater perhaps? His hair color was rather odd— mostly dark brown, but speckled with light streaks of gray, uncommon for such a young age. Dressed in a plain white shirt, well pressed jeans, bright red well made muggle sneakers and what appeared to be a necklace of some sort hanging underneath his shirt, the boy was obviously muggle. Well dressed indicating he had a family of decent means. He stands nearly at attention— military family then. Parents divorced, probably. His clothes were well made and he was clearly taken care of, but had no family in sight. Father supports his son but due to military employment he cannot physically be here. Only child.

“Odd, I didn’t imagine you capable of having actual friends Mycroft,” he muttered to his brother as they exchanged their final goodbye to their parents.

Mycroft’s eyes snapped back to him at that. Hit a nerve then? “I’m sorry I haven’t the slightest what you mean.”

“I suppose I’m more shocked at the choice. Muggleborn and a quidditch player at that? Not your usual taste I must admit.”

Color flooded his brother’s cheeks and he quickly ended his goodbyes and crossed the platform to board the train, making sure to exchange glances with the muggleborn boy now only a few feet away from him. 

Sherlock did the same, exchanging two last, tight hugs and made his way to the train. While other young students struggled to board the train without looking back at their parents, creating a pause in the line behind them, Sherlock did not glance back at his parents. 

He had to keep moving forward. A new chapter.

Sherlock did not get to lean out of the train and wave goodbye as the train began to lurch forward. Being one of the last students to board the train, he had the rather frustrating job of attempting to find an empty compartment. Compartment after compartment, faces and colors blended together. He briefly noticed his brother in a compartment nearly full of fellow Slytherins-- the muggleborn boy now sporting a Gryffindor tie and partially wearing his school uniform to his brother’s left. The boy rarely spoke to anyone else in the compartment. For the most part he looked rather awkward, quietly perusing through what appeared to be a muggle comic book. Only there for Mycroft then. His brother caught his visage as he passed the compartment but he did not give Sherlock even the slightest of nods. 

Nearing the back of the train, Sherlock spotted a nearly empty compartment-- one that held a familiar face. Hermione sat adjacent to two rather quiet boys. The one closest to the door was quite chubby, with flat, straight hair almost plastered to the top of his head, round chubby cheeks and had a nervous flush to his face. He was speaking in mumbles and stutters at Hermione-- clearly not used to conversing with people his own age. The boy closest to the window was ignoring the pair all together, his back to the door, staring rather solemnly out the window in complete silence. 

Sherlock gave little thought as he crossed into the compartment, met with the excited, quick jabbering of Hermione. She introduced the chubby fellow across from her as Neville Longbottom-- a name very familiar to him. He didn’t bother introducing himself. He had briefly met the Longbottom family at some of his Mother and Father’s parties, although he had never actually spoke to the boy in front of him. He perched himself on the bench next to Hermione, sitting as close to the window as humanly possible as he pulled his notebook and pen from pocket of his wool coat, jotting quick observations. 

His theory was that in order to survive the years to come, he would need observations on hand of his fellow students. Names, deductions that he could use to fire back at any overly friendly folks or some of the more nefarious types. He made a particular point on noting Mycroft’s muggleborn friend-- a relationship he would be sure to keep a particular eye on. Anything he could learn concerning his brother was sure to help in the future. 

  


A few hours had passed before the trolley made its way to their quiet compartment. He had taken some coin and bought a few pasties and chocolate frogs for the trip. Not long after the Longbottom boy began patting his pockets, getting up and searching the compartment rather frantically. He caught something about a toad and Hermione quickly followed him out of the compartment in search of it. Something about Trevor? A toad name Trevor? 

Eurus had been packed in the back along with the rest of his belongings, a decision he was regretting the longer the ride went. He had brought a book concerning mathematics with him but it was difficult to focus on the train. While his compartment was now dead silent, the rumble of the train and the excited conversation from other compartments hardly made it a quiet ride. 

Closing his book and notebook with a huff, Sherlock began to click the pen in an annoying, rapid fashion out of boredom as his eyes began to roam the small compartment until they landed on the deathly silent companion across from him.

The pen clicking stopped.

The boy’s eyes had not moved from their focus on what laid beyond the window, the expression on his face quite saddening. As if he had lost something more important than a toad.

This was the first time he truly took the time to observe the boy. Crumpled stained shirt, dyed black to help hide some of the stains that soap and water couldn’t scrub out, littered with holes. His jeans were dirty, holes rubbed clean through in places of the cheap fabric. His shoes were a dirty white, the sole beginning to peel away. The back of the shoe much more warn the front, indicating much like the rest of his clothing, they did not quite fit. Bought a long time ago, purchased to large either without care or in the intent he would grow into them. Mother is not in the picture. Poor finances, the parent has focuses on other things rather than his children going by the state of the boy. There was a small muggle wrist watch, in better condition than any of the rest of his clothing, shining slightly with the words “Love, Harry” written on the side. Not an only sibling, but he is used to being alone, meaning not very close family ties.

Laying against the wall of the compartment next to him was a warn, walking stick, in ill repair from heavy use. He had seen the likes before but he had never seen someone so young carry one. A sentiment from a lost loved one or disabled?

Hermione and Longbottom re-entered the compartment— the boy in a near sobbing state. Haven’t found the toad then. Hermione patted his back lightly before returning to her seat beside him, murmuring words of encouragement to the boy. At this point neither he nor the boy across from him had spoken a word. The one action he took the entire ride was in fact to lower the window, letting a cool breeze into the compartment, shuffling his well placed blond hair, his deep blue eyes not wavering from the passing landscape of the British Isles. 

He had done his best to attempt to listen into Hermione’s conversation— she was as much speaking to herself as anyone else in the room as her companions were completely silent, and only the Longbottom boy was hanging on her every word. Forgotten his name by this point. Did it start with an M?

Day quickly faded into night and the train let out one loud whistle, indicating they were nearing their destination— Hogwarts. The nervousness he had felt that morning flooded back in swells as he pulled his robes over his clothing, adjusting them so they fit nicely over his clothing. Hermione of course had pulled hers on the second they settled on the train, and the poor Longbottom fellow struggled to pull his on, but finally managed it as the train rolled to a stop.

The blue eyed boy did not raise from his seat until other students began to flood out of their compartments, using his walking stick to pull himself to a stand, leaning on the compartment wall for support as he pulled his cheap black robes over himself. Disabled then. But how? Abuse more likely by the state of his garments.

Sherlock cut his thoughts off at that, briskly following Hermione out of the compartment. He didn’t want to think too long on that. Without any idea of what possessed him to do so, Sherlock cleared a wide berth as he stood in the middle of the train, holding the compartment door open for the boy until he maneuvered into the line.Nothing was exchanged but a pair of awkward nods before he pushed himself further out of the train into the brisk night air. 

Soon the thoughts of blue and walking sticks faded from his mind entirely as he stared up at the magnificent castle in the distant. While the older students packed into carriages, pulled invisibly up the hill toward the school, first year students like himself were directed to a large series of time worn, wooden boats floating sirenly atop the mirror sheen of the lake. Loading onto the boats was a task considering the number of students itself— but the caretaker by the name of Hagrid did a decent job of overseeing the task. His parents had warned him about Hagrid—nice fellow, half giant. A bit oafish but a good heart nevertheless.

Sherlock found his companions again to be Hermione and the Longbottom boy, who was exclaiming with joy as his toad plopped onto his lap. The boy next to him was a talkative one of average intelligence by the name of Dean. But all the jabbering between the other three ceased as the boats began to move.

It was breathtaking. The sheer magnitude of it all. Towers among towers that reached so high, out of sight into the clear night sky. Giant windows filled with warmth and light reflecting its magnificence onto the black lake below the boats. Sherlock stared at that reflection— the shimmering visage of the castle before him, the night stars and moon shifting on the serene waters below him. 

He began to understand why students looked forward to this. If this alone would be the image he could look at for the rest of his days, he believed he would be happy with that.

Magic wasn’t too bad after all.

____________________________________

Mycroft kept a careful eye on the swarm of students that piled out of the train and headed in their respective directions. After finally landing his eyes on Sherlock, boarding on one of the boats with a rather bushy haired young girl, he felt comfortable enough to make his way to the carriages with the rest of his companions. Gregory had been the lone friend that waited for him among the throng. His only friend, truly,

“Are you so embarrassed of me that you wish to avoid introducing me to your little brother?” he quipped with a sly grin as they made their way up the hill toward the carriages. 

Mycroft gave him a scathing look and attempted to disregard the comment all together. “I don't wish to encourage him to push himself into my social life at school Gregory,” He paused for a moment as he stopped to stand in the line of students loading into the carriages. “He needs to find a place of his own here.”

Gregory gave him a look of disapproval but said nothing as they moved further up in the line. One of Gregory’s fellow Gryffindor’s, a short, curly haired girl named Sally waved at him from the front of the line. Gregory gave the slightest of waves back before focusing back on Mycroft in a comfortable silence. Mycroft kept an eye on the girl who kept looking back at Gregory with a blush as she turned back to her girlfriends in giggles. She likes him and he is completely oblivious of the fact. Fascinating.

Why Gregory Lastrade and Mycroft Holmes we’re friends at all, let alone best mates, was beyond him. Gregory was a quiet type, much like himself, but he had an infectious humor and in his element was quiet the extrovert. He loved sports and was quiet average on most subjects, save Defense Against the Dark Arts. That was his best subject. He also had an eye for people. While Mycroft was nearly his complete opposite. Regardless, like magnets, the two rarely separated, the nature of their friendship even a mystery to themselves.

Irene, a rather roguish Slytherin whose near constant sly smile made you want to crawl under a table, strolled up beside the pair so silently Gregory nearly jumped when she began to tap her long, filed fingers against his shoulders. She didn’t say a word, her lovely black hair wrapped into a delicate bun resting on the back of her head, her Slytherin

robes blowing in the wind. Close behind her was perhaps the only companion he felt comfort with other than Gregory. Anthea, in her usual, beautiful and saucy form, strolled up to his side with a bump and a wink. 

“How are you Crofty? Didn’t spend too much time in the mirror this summer I hope?”

Mycroft ignored the mirror comment entirely, “I don’t like my name shortened,” he quipped as he pulled himself into the carriage after Gregory, squeezing in next to him to avoid Irene’s nefarious advances. She didn’t seem the least bit upset by this however, taking it in stride and running her fingers through Anthea’s golden brown hair. He ignored the action all together and focused his attention on the shrinking boats below him as they neared the castle.

“I do hope the sorting doesn’t take long tonight,” Gregory said breaking the silence, “I’m starving.”

Mycroft snorted at that so loudly Anthea actually jumped. “I doubt that,” he laughed, turning away from the boats to focus on his companions. “It will be the longest one yet.”

“Oh that’s right,” Irene exclaimed with a grin, turning her attention away from Anthea with a glee shining in her green eyes. “We finally get to meet the youngest Holmes.”

“Irene,” his voice was short with an undercurrent of warning “he will not be another toy to you. Leave Sherlock to his own trouble making.”

This only made Irene lean forward more, her grin turning into full blown smile, “Sherlock is it? I wonder if the youngest Holmes will be as cold as his elder brother hmmm? I think I saw a glimpse of him on the platform. Can’t wait to have him in Slytherin if he's anything like you.”

“He won’t be in Slytherin,” Mycroft cut off, “it isn’t his style. I’m warning you Irene, stay clear of him.”

She sat back with that with a sigh, but didn’t take her eyes off him for a moment until the carriage lurched to a stop. He knew that Irene would be no good for Sherlock. She was a curious girl, with lightning sharp wits and incredible cunning. Her ambition was not for herself however, but more to find out how to make each person dangle like a puppet. That’s where her interest in Sherlock would be— how to make Mycroft dance on a string.

Keep your enemies close, they say. 

Piling out of the carriage and flowing into the welcoming warmth of the Great Hall, Gregory only stopped for a moment, meeting his eyes briefly with an understanding nod before he made his way over to the Gryffindor table to join Oliver Wood and his other mates on the Quidditch team. It was in that simple nod that Gregory knew what was asked of him. In moments where the oldest Holmes would not be available to keep Irene as far from his brother as possible, Gregory understood he was to play the game of cat and mouse— Irene being the cat of course. While Sherlock was an obvious interest of her’s after his slip up, she could never resist playing with Gregory.

He detested the fact, but it would play in his favor regardless.

Taking his usual spot at the Slytherin table, Mycroft gave his complementary nods to other purebloods of importance, Cassius Warrington and Marcus Flint among them. He expected there would be an influx of several new Slytherin students as many heirs of the sacred 28 were now of age to enter Hogwarts. He was both intrigued and a bit sick about this fact. More chess pieces to move.

He placed himself between Anthea and Cassius, Irene taking the spot directly next to Anthea and gave her the majority of her attention during their wait for the new students. A curious relationship, the two girls had. It was a deep bond surly, but a very different, coy relationship that few girls seem to share. He chose not to focus on that and instead began to play his newly developed favorite past time.

Where was Sally Donovan. 

He wasn’t sure why exactly but he had a very buried desire to know where the girl was and If she had her eyes zoned in on Gregory.

Not that it bothered him. It was perfectly normal for 13 year old boys and girls to have crushes and try to hone absolutely terrible flirting skills.

No it didn’t bother him.

He however did note that she had placed herself at nearly the opposite end of the Gryffindor table from Gregory talking at length with one of the millions of Weasley boys. He thought this one was Percy. A close friend of hers.

He mentally noted the fact and fixed his attention to the doors of the Great Hall, swinging open wide for the throng of first years lead by Professor McGonagall, Hagrid bringing up the rear. Near the tail end of the students he spied his brother, again in arms length of the bushy haired girl. He was followed by a quiet obvious Muggleborn boy who seemed to walk with a slight limp, leaning heavily on what appeared to be more of an old stick than a walking cane. 

Odd

As the group made it further to the front of the room, he watched his young brother’s eyes fly all over the room, barely stopping to land on faces. Deducing no doubt— taking and analyzing every detail of the room. He had done the same as a first year. The sheer beauty of the castle itself changes you.

The typical ritual of the sorting began immediately, a fairly even number of new students being sorted into all four houses. His brother’s bushy haired companion, named Hermione Granger took a few moments before the House loudly shouted out GRYFFINDOR and the typical hooting and shouting from the table followed. Nearly immediately his brother’s name was called, following hushed whispers from his own table, and expectant glanced toward him.

While others sat on the edges of their seats to see where his younger brother would be placed, Mycroft got rather comfortable.

He would be here for a while. 

——————————————————————

He had been under that sweaty, dark hat for nearly twenty minutes it seems as the Sorting Hat continued to argue with him at length.

Even the hat seemed to have grown tired of it.

Going round and round in circles colored of green, red and blue. He had immediately dismissed Hufflepuff, although it would be quite funny. The hat dismissed it as well. After a length of time, Gryffindor was finally tossed out of the ring as well; while he had qualities of bravery he held no love for boisterous or loud hooping. He now wrestled between the green and the blue. While his cunning would take him far in Slytherin House, the hat ultimately yelled RAVENCLAW in a rather exasperated state. He did like the color blue and as far as the house goes, he enjoyed nothing more than a nice puzzle.

His announcement was met with more relief than excitement. His eyes fell on his brother sitting at the near end of the Slytherin table, who only gave him the slightest of nods before returning his attention to the Sorting. A short, meak girl by the name of Molly Hooper was next and was quickly sorted into Hufflepuff, blushing during the entire round of applause. 

He found the most vacant spot among his fellow Ravenclaw students and watched as the Longbottom boy from the train was sorted into Gryffindor— that floored him completely. He had bet completely on Hufflepuff. The next name of note was the Malfoy boy he had met in the entrance way before they entered the hall. He had quickly deduced that the boy had his eyes fixated on who whispers said was the famed Harry Potter, obviously intent on gaining his friendship.

After that complete disaster, the blond boy had retreated to the back of the line where even the hulking fellows that had accompanied him didn’t follow after such a public spurning.

He had simply told the boy to stop trying to be a mold of his father and start a life here as he would want it to be. That and that disastrous display of complete arrogance and absolutely not a drop of savviness that being a Slytherin required, the green would not be a good fit for him.

He hadn’t taken that well.

Nevertheless the hat took a bit on the blond boy’s head, moving and muttering until RAVENCLAW was shouted from its lips. The Malfoy boy seemed to be so shocked by the announcement that the Professor nearly had to lift him from the stool and guide him to the table. 

Now that had lit the room with whispers. Not one Malfoy as far as history could record had not been a Slytherin.

Until today it seems.

Malfoy had sat himself near him, but sure to not look anyone in the eye, instead fixated at the blue banner above him. Shellshocked it would seem.

The Potter boy walked his way slowly up to the chair, visibly shaking even from the distance Sherlock sat at. His clothes hung more like trash bags underneath his robes rather than actual clothes; his thin frame a mixture of natural physic and malnutrition. The hat took an enormous amount of time on the boy’s head— much to Sherlock’s relief but to the annoyance of everyone else in the room.

They were rather hungry.

Finally a verdict of GRYFFINDOR was announced and the shouts from the red table bounded even higher than before and they continued through the throngs of other students— several sorted into Slytherin, Gryffindor and Hufflepuff in equal measures. It was when the boy with the slight limp— the boy with deep blue eyes, stiffly pulled his way on top of the stool Sherlock found himself fixated like a magnet.

The hat had shouted GRYFFINDOR nearly as soon as the top hit his head. The name, John Watson lingered in his mind for the remainder of the opening feast. The last boy to be sorted was a tall and rather lanky boy by the name of Ronald Wesley, who was just as quickly sorted into the red. But still he watched the Watson boy with an interest he didn’t understand— at all. He had sat himself near the middle of the table, close to where the boy that Mycroft obviously knew was. He was as quiet as before, giving polite nods and small smiles to those who congratulated him on his sorting, but all together seemed to phase out his fellow students, and instead focused on Professor Dumbledore’s speech.

Other than some bit about a corridor that would lead to horrible death, the entire bit seems rather silly. Third floor corridor did he say? Wonder where that would be. 

The rest of the dinner was consumed by the clatter of cutlery against fine plates and the smells of absolutely divine food. He actually ate several handfuls of what seemed to be game pie, followed by a delightful orange and raspberry pudding. It was the Malfoy boy who did not eat. He barely managed to notice the food— let alone the cake. And his fellow students didn’t bother to nudge him out of his stupor. It was only after a fifth year prefect named Philip Anderson instructed them out of the dining hall and up a winding stairway into one of the topmost towers of the castle that the boy seemed to be aware of his surroundings. Well, partially. A very flighty and whimsical girl named Luna, with long blonde hair and pale skin seemed to take the job of Malfoy’s care up the stairs and into the common room upon herself. 

It was to his absolute delight that the entrance of his common room was guarded by an eagle shaped knocker that asked a different riddle each time a student went to entire it. The first one has been rather obvious—I’m tall when I am young, but short when I am old. What am I?

Sherlock had immediately blurted “candle” before the prefect could even answer— to the boys obvious annoyance. The eagle nodded in a satisfactory manner and stated “Very good.” Before sliding open to reveal a rather stunning home. 

High domed ceilings glittering with painted stars, comets shooting among the constellations. Fluffy seating areas made of thick comfortable pillows and large, soft couches scattered about various parts of the large room, with two staircases winding upward to the students rooms and lavatories. Large corners filled with highly stacked bookcases filled the majority of the room, with low lighting reflecting that time for bed was quickly upon them. 

Up the left hand staircase was the boy’s rooms, the first year boy’s taking the floor closest to the common room. He found himself sharing his quarters with Terry Boot, Michael Corner, Anthony Goldstein and Draco Malloy— the last of which immediately bounded into his bed, drawing the deep blue curtains around him for privacy. If Sherlock listened close enough, he could hear the tale tale sniffs of crying, but instead focused his intentions on the beautiful mountainside view of the window next to his bed. Eurus was perched in her cage atop his bedside table. The bed was roomy and very comfortable, designed in the natural tones of bronze and deep blue. His area, like his classmates included a small side table, a dresser and a writing desk for his studies. At the end of the bed, sat a wide bookcase, which he immediately sat to the task of organizing his muggle books by category and alphabetically. He unpacked his robes and clothing into the dresser as quickly as possible— and not nearly enough attention to detail as his books received, before he placed his muggle pen and journal on his bedside table. 

While the other boys blew out their candles, the room only lit by the warm fireplace against the back wall of the large room, Sherlock let the light die out of its own accord. While watching the wax drain down the sides of the candle, his thoughts drifted him into a sleep filled with wonderful depths of the color blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done! For future reference we will get plenty of perspectives from Harry Potter characters, but I find it necessary to define the place of our Sherlock characters in this universe first. This story is semi canon. By that I mean events from the books will appear to a point but they will diverge in very obvious ways as the story progresses. Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading the prologue! Next chapter we will begin to meet many more of the main characters. I appreciate all reviews.


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